For how long have I fantasized about string bikinis? For as long as I can remember, they have been among the sexiest things on my list of garments to wear. I have never worn one.
I suppose they've always been on my radar, but only lately has it become obsessive. This summer, during the Canada Day celebrations, I saw a girl in Ottawa wearing a blue string bikini under her shorts. It was the kind with panties that tie up on the sides in a delectable knot, and her top tied up the same way behind her back and neck. It was blue. I could tell what she was wearing because she wasn't wearing a shirt, just the top; and those sexy knots hung out above the belt of her jean shorts. I was mesmerized.
Today, two nights before Xmas eve, I have succumbed and bought myself a wonderfully gorgeous string bikini.
It's hard to imagine how one string bikini could be less feminine than another. They are all so fantastically and unmistakably girlish that it's almost absurd - for the casual observer - to see much of a difference. To the trained eye, however, the differences can be astounding.
Take, for example, a solid black string bikini. It's absurdly sexy. Its shape alone determines entirely what type of person should be wearing it. Now think of a solid hot pink string bikini, and tell me which one is more feminine. Clearly, hot pink has overwhelmingly feminine connotations to it that black, sadly, lacks. Men never wear anything hot pink.
I present you now with a third string bikini: the pink floral print string bikini! Solid colours are simple, but floral patterns are radically effeminate, no matter what colour. Imagine the feminine implications of a floral pattern in pink! Imagine this insanely feminine pattern in the soft, stretchy lycra of a string bikini!
That is the bikini that I bought, and that I will wear. What follows is a celebration of this glorious new addition to my wardrobe.
Actually, I've copied a previous story (the ageless fantasy of the male hero being captured by the women's army, which is out to effeminate the world, and how the hero must go through exponential stages to become a woman) and will improve it somewhat. It's pretty good, so I'll make it better. During most of this time, and this is the key, I must resist wearing the bikini. I must starve myself from wearing it until later. The discipline involved will reflect that in the story, and also make me unbearably horny to wear it. I will have an unbelievable time with my bikini!
Diary: Innocently Stunning
Oh, how I love your body! Your smooth, delicate curves, your soft skin, the grace of your movements... I fantasize about how you look in your underwear, or when you wear a swimsuit, how every gorgeous curve spins and slips underneath. Isn't it funny how my desperate longing for your body has me trying to emulate it?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
Diary: Advice Column
An article in the [local tabloid newspaper] caught my attention last weekend. It's was part of an advice column about sex. A man wrote that during a night of heavy drinking, his girlfriend got him to try on her panties while they made love, and that it was the most intense sexual experience of his life. The problem was that he wanted to wear her panties often, and she wouldn't let him. He had resorted to buying his own. He openly admitted that wearing women's underwear had become an essential component of his sex life.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
Fiction: Underwear Swap
[this sounds awfully familiar...]
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Diary: Enumerations
Place items of feminine clothing in reverse order of impact. Special combinations count as separate items (e.g. panties is one item; panties with matching brassiere, garter belt and and stockings is quite another). Distinct types of items also count as separate items (e.g. silk stockings are not the same as fishnet stockings).
- Kilt, wearing men's underwear underneath. Dressed like a Scot.
- Long skirt, everything else, including underwear, masculine
- Long skirt and blouse, men's underwear underneath
- Regular pantyhose, men's underwear
- Control-top pantyhose, men's underwear
- Bicycle shorts, no underwear.
- Regular pantyhose. Nothing else.
- Control-top pantyhose. Nothing else.
- 80's style leotard, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants and a matching fairly full sport bra-type top. No underwear.
- One-piece swimsuit, men's underwear underneath.
- One-piece swimsuit, control-top pantyhose underneath
- One-piece swimsuit, regular pantyhose underneath.
- Full-coverage one-piece swimsuit.
- Granny panties
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit with racer back.
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- High-cut cotton bikini and matching bra with straps
- Black cotton panties, full
- White cotton panties, full
- String bikini bottom
- High cut lycra bikini and matching bra with straps
- Full white cotton panties and bra
- Garter belt and nylon stockings
- Garter belt and silk stockings
- Garter belt and fishnet stockings
- Lace teddy, any colour
- White lace panties
- Black lace panties
- White silk or satin panties
- Black silk or satin panties
- Silk or satin teddy
- Lace panties and bra
- Silk or satin panties and bra
- Panties, bra, garter belt, and stockings
- Silk or satin teddy and garter belt and stockings
- Any panties and bra under a long flowing dress
- Any panties and bra under a long tight dress
- Any panties and bra under a short dress
- Any panties and bra under a tight miniskirt and halter top
- Pantyhose (regular)
- Control-top pantyhose
- Leotard tights
- Full Leotard
- Leotard without tights
- One-piece swimsuit
- Bikini bottom
- Bikini with strapless top
- Bikini
- Panties
- Bra
- Garter belt
- Fishnet stockings
- White satin teddy
- Black lace teddy
- White lace teddy
- Bustier
- Long dress
- Short dress
- Miniskirt
- Makeup
Do you own more different swimsuits than most women?
Fiction: Conditioning Experiments
I was desperate. I needed the money, or else I'd have been living on the street. I always laughed at people who volunteered for scientific experiments for a price. The scientists never told you what they were going to do to you. I figured I would be trying out some new drugs or something. I never expected them to do surgery.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
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